A Sailor's Honour by Chris Marnewick

He wore a blue pinstriped suit with a white button-down shirt, a red-and-blue club tie, and brown brogues which matched his leather belt. Weber’s first impression was of a BEE billionaire or tenderpreneur, gorging on public funds while essential services were being neglected in all provinces.
    â€˜Mr Mazibuko?’ Weber began somewhat tentatively.
    James Mazibuko stood up and smiled. He was short and slight. ‘I’m the only one here, aren’t I?’
    They shook hands. His hand was soft. There was none of the triple shake some Africans employ. ‘Here’s your brief,’ he said and handed a folder tied with pink ribbon to Weber.
    â€˜Let’s go through,’ Weber said and indicated that Mazibuko should go ahead.
    â€˜You expected someone else,’ Mazibuko said over his shoulder.
    â€˜True,’ Weber admitted. ‘But wouldn’t you have done the same?’
    â€˜No,’ Mazibuko said. ‘You look exactly as I had imagined.’
    The grammar was perfect, the tone slightly condescending, the accent, if anything, Zimbabwean rather than local.
    They stopped at Weber’s window overlooking the harbour. The view never failed to impress Weber’s clients. Weber opened the brief and glanced at its contents. There was a single typed page and a newspaper. He read the instructions quickly. Counsel is briefed with this morning’s paper and is instructed to consult with client. It was an old joke. When an attorney has no instructions or relevant information to give the advocate, they provide a copy of the morning paper. But they usually came to the consultation. Not this one though, at Weber’s express request.
    â€˜I have a better view than you do,’ Mazibuko said. He pointed at the tall building which stood between Weber’s chambers and the Esplanade and obscured most of Weber’s view over the harbour and the Bluff beyond. ‘I have a penthouse on the top two floors over there, on that side.’ Mazibuko pointed to the left. He would have a view of the ocean from there.
    â€˜You could watch me working, then, if you wanted to,’ Weber said.
    â€˜Only at night when the lights are on. During the day the glass acts like a mirror.’
    â€˜True,’ Weber said again. He needed an opening to start the consultation, but Mazibuko gave no indication that he was in any hurry to sit down.
    Weber’s secretary came in with the tea and placed the tray at the centre of the conference table.
    â€˜And you don’t work at night, I’ve noticed,’ Mazibuko said. He turned to the table and lifted the teapot. ‘Milk, sugar?’
    â€˜Black, one sugar.’ Weber said and took his usual seat with his back to the window. He looked over his shoulder at Mazibuko’s penthouse and felt uneasy.
    â€˜Like my girlfriend,’ Mazibuko said. ‘Black, and not too sweet.’
    Weber smiled at the joke and watched as Mazibuko poured his own – white, with lots of milk and two and a half sugars – and sat down at the opposite end of the table with just the slightest smile on his lips. The man was toying with him, Weber knew, but he also knew that he’d have to play along.
    â€˜What can I do for you, Mr Weber?’ Mazibuko said. ‘You’re a busy man and I’m sure you would want to get this over quickly.’ He leaned back in his chair.
    The small talk was over.
    Weber looked down at the brief cover. The State versus James Mazibuko and eleven others. ‘I need help and I believe someone like you can provide it,’ he said.
    â€˜You know who I am and what I do, Mr Weber. How can someone like me help someone like you? It’s usually me asking you people for help.’
    Weber settled for the abridged version. ‘My wife has been kidnapped. I suspect that an underground resistance movement is involved. Or someone with very strong connections in the security services, the SANDF , SAPS , NIA .